Chapter 53
Julie’s Point of View
Not long after that stormy confrontation, my bedroom door swung wide open.
A group of guards entered, carrying a massive white desk, an intricately carved wooden bookshelf, and large, stuffed paper bags.
I stood in the corner, stunned, watching them arrange the new furniture with precision.
How could Robert the man I had just pointed a cane at order all of this?
I approached one of the guards with cautious steps and asked in a low voice,
"Did Mr. Robert order these things for my room?"
The guard didn’t even look at . He replied in a dry, chanical tone,
"Mr. Carlos ndoza brought them."
I took a step back, a sharp gasp catching in my chest from the shock.
"Mr. Carlos?"
The guard ignored my bewildernt and finished the work with the others. They all withdrew, closing the door behind them.
I remained alone before that white desk the kind I had never dread of owning and the bookshelf that slled of fresh wood.
With the eagerness of a child on her first school day, I rushed toward the bags and began emptying them.
There were notebooks of various sizes, colored pens, reams of polished paper, bright stickers, an elegant diary, and even a wooden calendar.
I touched the papers with my fingertips as if to confirm they were real, trying to understand the contradiction surrounding Robert and his n; one hand kills, while the other offers a world of paper I had long craved for.
A wave of pure joy washed over as I admired my new possessions. I imdiately began organizing the books, placing them on the shelves by category, then arranged the pens in their holder.
My God, they hadn’t missed even the smallest detail.
I pulled out the desk chair, which ca in a charming, calming seafoam green, and sat on it. Its small wheels rolled smoothly over the floor, allowing to glide left and right effortlessly.
I was completely numb with the happiness these things brought, until a sudden tightness gripped my chest a bitter pang that dragged back to reality.
"Julie..." I whispered to myself, "nothing here cos without a price."
I pulled out a blank sheet of paper, gripped the pen tightly, and began pouring out my anxiety.
I didn’t write a poem or a diary entry. Instead, it was a single sentence repeated line after line until the page was filled dozens of tis:
"Life offers nothing for free."
The silence of the room was broken by the creaking wheels of the tal food trolley.
The cook maneuvered it skillfully as usual, announcing with her presence that the clock had completed its cycle to settle at 9:00 PM.
I rose from the seafoam green chair, leaving behind the paper filled with my warnings, and approached the trolley. The air was thick with the scent of spices and the sea.
I uncovered the carefully arranged dishes: a rich, steaming fish soup, golden crispy shrimp, a side of snow white rice, and a Caesar salad with toasted croutons.
I began to eat slowly, savoring the salty shrimp and the warmth of the soup spreading through my body. But my eyes remained fixed on the dessert: the pudding.
When I reached for it, I sank my spoon into its smooth texture. As I tasted it, the sweetness lted in my mouth.
It was the best mont of the al, as if the sugar briefly eased the bitterness of the thoughts I had written earlier.
After I finished eating, I felt an urgent need to wash away everything that reminded of that hour.
The sll of wine droplets of which had splattered across the room and onto my clothes was irritating my senses.
I went into the bathroom and stood before the mirror, slowly peeling the bandage from my face. I ran my fingers over the skin to find that the wound had closed completely.
Only a faint trace remained, almost unnoticeable, just as the nurse had promised. I took off my clothes and turned on the faucet, letting the warm waterfall drench and wash away the weight of the day.
I stepped out shrouded in steam; the clock had crawled to 9:40 PM. I chose a delicate white nightgown that reached my knees from the closet, then picked up the hairdryer.
The sound of the motor drowned out the silence as I ran it through my hair, watching in the mirror as the strands dried and fluttered around my face.
The mont I pressed the stop button and silence suddenly returned, the door was flung open without warning.
Robert stood at the threshold.
His towering fra seed to carve out a piece of the hallway light behind him.
He stepped inside with asured strides, the sound of his shoes echoing faintly on the cold marble floor.
He pushed the door behind him coldly but left it slightly ajar a small gap remaining.
He fixed his eyes on mine and said in an eerily calm tone,
"Good evening, Julie."
In that mont, my composure completely betrayed .
A violent tremor ran through my fingers, and my hands shook in a way that exposed my panic under his gaze.
I tried to gather the fragnts of my voice, standing as firmly as I could.
"You aren’t used to giving welcoming greetings, Mr. Robert."
A mysterious smile played on his face as he said calmly,
"You’ve declared war on , Julie, haven’t you?"
I was barefoot, feeling the chill of the marble piercing my skin. I pressed my toes into the floor as if trying to anchor myself, while my hand gripped the hem of my white nightgown. Words escaped my trembling lips as I t his gaze:
"Yes... and I will fight you."
He kept his eyes on coldly, slipping a hand into his trouser pocket.
"Your intelligence and boldness won’t last even a minute,"
he said confidently.
I swallowed hard, my breath faltering in my chest, but I struggled to force a defiant smile.
"Yes, they will."
He tilted his head slightly to the left, his hawk-like gaze still pinned on . Then, he suddenly raised his voice, directing an order toward the ajar door:
"Co in."
My eyes locked onto the door in deadly anticipation.
A thousand terrifying possibilities raced through my mind.
But I froze in place when that long face appeared the green eyes and sharp features I knew all too well.
My smile vanished completely, my lips parted in sheer shock, and I couldn’t stop a faint scream from escaping:
"Papa?!"
User Comments
0 comments from readers